


His Mark on Your Soul

by arts_and_letters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s13e01 Lost and Found, spoilers for S13 up to s13e05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 01:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15132089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arts_and_letters/pseuds/arts_and_letters
Summary: When Dean Winchester was raised out of the fiery pits of hell, his body was remade. All the scars and callouses, the echoes of old wounds—all of it was erased, and in their place was left that one, singular mark, the handprint over his right shoulder.Castiel’s mark.





	His Mark on Your Soul

When Dean Winchester was raised out of the fiery pits of hell, his body was remade. All the scars and callouses, the echoes of old wounds—the broken arm that never quite healed right, the left ankle that always twinged before a storm—all of it was erased, and in their place was left that one, singular mark, the handprint over his right shoulder. 

Castiel’s mark.

Eventually, that too faded from but even when it was no longer visible, Dean could still feel it. Not all of the time, but at certain moments—when Castiel fixed him with that piercing gaze, in the desperate moments when he prayed to the angel, and most of all, when Cas touched a finger to his head and healed all his wounds—the physical ones, at least—just like the very first time.

Even when Metatron stole Cas’s grace and condemned him to life as a broken, feeble human just like all the rest of them, he could still feel the mark’s presence. It wasn’t as strong as when Cas was fully powered, just a shadow of its former strength, but still it persisted, like a promise—a promise that one day Cas would get his grace back.

And when Dean’s soul was tainted by the darkness of that other mark—the Mark of Cain—even that darkness wasn’t enough to erase the sensation. Cas’s mark was too strong to be overcome, even by that.

The mark, the feeling, It wasn’t something he talked about, not with Cas, not with Sam, not with Bobby—certainly not with Crowley. But he can’t help but think that Cas sensed it too, the way he would occasionally rest a hand on Dean’s shoulder on that exact spot. It was just one of those things that didn’t need to be put into words—couldn’t be put into words. 

This mark—the invisible tether between them—was how he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his angel, his Castiel, was gone from this world.

He knew, because he stood beside the empty vessel, and felt nothing. No surge of warmth, no burn of recognition. 

Nothing.

Just a gaping hole in his chest. Just an exhausting, overwhelming, all encompassing emptiness. A loneliness that took his breath away.

Castiel was dead. 

Cas wasn’t the only casualty, of course. Crowley’s gone too—sacrificed himself for the Winchesters. Who could have predicted that?

(Maybe they—maybe _he—_ had been too hard on Crowley all these years. Maybe he should have been a little more willing to forgive and forget. After all, who among them hadn’t done something unforgivable? Were Dean’s sins really so much worse than Crowley’s? Not that it mattered now—not to Crowley, at least. But still, when he prayed—begged, demanded, pleaded—to Chuck to bring Cas back, he asked for Crowley to.)  
  
Their mother was dead too, no matter how much Sammy might want to believe otherwise. Dean knew it in his heart. Mary Winchester is lost to them—again.

That hurt, of course, but Dean had lived practically his whole life without a mother. He had built his existence around her absence. This was a pain he knew how to deal with—or at least, a pain he was intimately familiar with, a pain that he could bury, a pain he could survive.

And if he’s being honest with himself—which he hates to do, even in the quiet of his own thoughts—but if he’s being honest, from the first moment Amara brought his mother back— _I’m going to give you what you need most in this world—_ from that first moment, he was just waiting for her to abandon them—to abandon him—again. 

It was only a matter of time.

So in a certain, horrible way, it’s almost a relief, not to have to constantly worry about when the blow would fall.  
  
Mary Winchester is dead. Just like Crowley. And Kelly Kline. And just like—

But Castiel was never supposed to die. Cas was supposed to go on living long after Sam and after Dean had ceased to exist. Cas was an angel. _His_ angel. He always returned to them—to him, to Dean. Even after Lucifer on the battlefield, after the Leviathan catastrophe, after Purgatory—Cas always came back.

But not anymore. Now he’s gone—for good.

In his absence, every ache, every hurt, it’s just another reminder that Castiel is gone from this world, and he’s never coming back. Not this time. Not ever again.

Once again the bumps and the bruises begin to build, because there’s no one there to erase them. Every time he flexes his hands—torn up from his violent lashing out, when Chuck wouldn’t answer his prayers—just what he needed, another absentee father—every time, that little jolt of pain reminds him of everything that he’s lost.

And then there’s Jack, the nephilim—all of this, all of this death because of him. So they could bring this evil into the world. 

If only Jack hadn’t brainwashed Cas from the womb, if only Kelly Kline had listened to reason, if he could just go back—

But he can’t. He could have, at one time, when he still had an angel by his side. But not now, not anymore.

A part of him—his rational brain, with a voice that always sounds suspiciously like Sam—that part of him knows maybe it’s not fair to blame all of this on Jack. It’s not fair to keep lashing out, to pour all of this pent up anger and rage and despair onto this kid.

But he has to blame Jack, because if he doesn’t—well, then there’s no one left to blame but himself. And that train of thought drags him down into a pit of despair so deep he’s not sure he can ever climb out again.

He should have protected them, should have saved them, no matter what the cost.

After all, how many times has Cas saved him? Given his life, his freedom, given everything for Dean? How could Dean ever repay that level of devotion?

He can’t, of course. Certainly not now, anyway.

So yeah, maybe he was a little too eager to volunteer for a suicide mission—literal suicide. Maybe he had been carrying that syringe in his bag ever since that dark day when Castiel’s light was extinguished forever. Maybe, he kept it just in case, when it all became too much, when even alcohol couldn’t bring the pain to a tolerable level.  
  
Just like Bobby, with his one bullet.

But Dean knew he could never do that—a shot to the head. Couldn’t do that to Sammy. But this—it would look accidental, natural, even. His heart would stop, and his body would burn, and a reaper would throw him out into the Empty.

And then it happened—the closest thing to good fortune he’d experienced in a very long time. The perfect excuse.

It was for the case, of course. That’s what he told Sammy, and it was true, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. But it was good enough.

A chance to get away from this pain, this unbearable, never-ending, pain, and maybe, just maybe, to do one good thing on his way out of this world.

It was selfish, of course, but Dean’s always been selfish, and he’s just too damn tired to care anymore. Besides, maybe it will be better this way. Sam has Jack now, and perhaps that will be enough to keep Sam going in Dean’s absence.

So when they were on the case, and they needed to find the bodies, Dean pulled that needle and stabbed the drugs into his vein before Sam could do a thing to stop him.

Of course, when has anything gone the way they thought it would? Instead of a one way trip to the Empty that was promised, Billy—Death, the Grim Reaper, whatever—sent him right back again. 

Son of a bitch. He can’t even die right.

That was his first thought, when he opened his eyes to see Sam’s frantic, desperate face staring down at him. 

His second thought—well, it wasn’t so much a thought, as a feeling.

At first, he thought it was a weird side effect from his trip to the other side. And then after awhile, he thought maybe he had finally just lost his mind.

But it was there, undeniable—he could feel the mark again—Cas’s mark. At first, just a whisper, barely discernible, but as the hours passed, it grew, that feeling, that warmth, the invisible handprint.

Even though he knew it couldn’t mean what he so desperately wanted it to, still, inexplicably, it made him feel better. Less alone, less hopeless, more alive.

Then he got the phone call. He didn’t recognize the number, but he certainly recognized the voice, that greeting—

_Hello, Dean_

After he hung up the phone, a part of him wondered if this was some sort of post-veil hallucination. In fact, he was convinced that it was a hallucination, or maybe some demon trying to trap them, or any number of horrible possibilities, because when had anything ever gone right for Dean Winchester? When had he ever gotten something that he wanted so desperately he felt like all the air had been stolen from his lungs?

But he had to know for sure, so he held on to the steering wheel as tight as he could to hide how badly his hands were shaking, and he did the only thing he could think to do—he drove.

And when he finally arrived, when he wrapped his arms around Cas—his angel, alive, breathing, right here in front him—he felt that familiar warmth go through him, and just like that, Dean was whole again.

**Author's Note:**

> I only recently got into the Supernatural fandom, but I’ve already become total Destiel trash. This is my first attempt at Supernatural fanfic, so if you have a moment to leave kudos or comments, I’d love to hear what you thought of this angsty little one shot.


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